my broken bride, you never breathed again
by slash mania
Summary: Arthur was going to tear time apart for Eames- he had to. It may have taken him fifteen years to build the time machine, but he was going to save his husband's life.
1. like petals pressed in sheets

A.N: This is a shameless story inspired by the epic "Broken Bride" EP by Ludo- if you aren't worried about spoilers, go ahead and listen to it and enjoy. Each chapter will stand for a song in the exact order of the track list. Our first chapter 'like petals pressed in sheets' stands for "Part 1: Broken Bride".

And, for the sake of the time Inception seems to take place in, Eames doesn't die in 1989. I make hand-wavy 'I know nothing of time travel' motions and just follow the plot of the song. Arthur's time machine is vaguely based off of a picture from Ludo's Rock Opera that I can't find now!

Disclaimer: I do not own Inception. I also don't own Ludo. I also don't own Doctor Who or the lovely quote I mention in the summary.

my broken bride, you never breathed again

"For fifteen years I fought-"

There was the sound of the scratching of Arthur's pen against his journal, the clean white paper a familiar and comforting sight to him. His correction in precise slashes of black ink removed the word "fought" from his sentence. All he could hear was the steady drip-drip of water from within his small cave, surrounded by the broken bits of his machine.

The sound of the massive pterodactyl's scream ripped apart the mundane peace of the act- as long as Arthur could focus on his recounting the experience, as long as he could get it out on paper, he wouldn't have to freak the fuck out because he had managed to do it- that he had finally gone back in time, just as he had intended to; even if he had clearly overshot the mark.

He shook his head and substituted "raged" for "fought". Satisfied by the change, he spoke aloud as he continued to write, his voice feeling strange in this cooling space.

"-I raged against the constant c and speed of light…"

* * *

When Arthur got the call, it was like he had swallowed motor oil- the supposedly lubricating substance only stopping up his throat.

He could only croak his reply, something he had intended to be: "Yes, this is Arthur." It was swiftly followed by "but this couldn't be happening" and "he only just left" and "what do you mean he hit a tree?"

Arthur would always remember that morning- it was the morning he lost the forger, the day that he lost his husband. Eames, lost forever because of an icy road and a fucking tree. Arthur dropped the phone because he couldn't get that voice out of his head- a voice informing him of the accident and Eames's death at the scene.

It was a morning in May and the roads shouldn't have been so slick- blame it on climate change or maybe it was some other driver's fault. Blame it on anything but stupid, stupid chance!

Horrible considering every other way it would have been more likely for them to die, Arthur had thought to himself. Horrible because he would have thought of murder rather than an accident. That it would have involved guns rather than an icy road, knives instead of a collision with a tree- the impact with the steering column that would have collapsed Eames's lungs. They had been dangerous dream thieves, damn it!

And, pushing away the method of death, Arthur had always believed that they would at least be together. Arthur had been peacefully laying in bed, having only half-heartedly tried to rein the late forger back into bed. But Eames had been insistent. That he was late and he really had to go.

His last interaction with him would be burned into his memory forever. Arthur had spent a long, long night in his workshop, his lab, only crawling into bed in the early morning before the sun had risen and he had had enough of failure.

The man with an actual doctorate in physics and engineering, Arthur, who had a hand in the invention and development of the PASIV (something he let very few know, allowing people to believe that his attachment and concern for the machine was only due to his position as point man), was trying to do the impossible and build his own time machine.

* * *

After Eames died, Arthur reasoned that he had a new purpose for his building the time machine.

"I promised to get back to that morning in May," Arthur said to himself, his pen having long since run out of ink, the pages of his journal full. He spoke aloud, keeping himself sane with the little task. If he had any ink left in his pen he would have written himself a list of rules; the first would have been to constantly, frequently remind himself of how he had gotten to this hell. To remind himself that he wasn't dreaming and that if he let that pterodactyl eat him, the only place he'd end up would be dead at the pit of its stomach.

"I was going to bring you back to life, Eames. I was going to save your life, I was going to fix your ruined lungs."

The cave was full of a type of moss that as far as Arthur could tell wasn't poisonous. He wanted to say that it was poisonous, that he was allergic, but he didn't have many choices for food here. The stuff was edible and could also be gathered by the handful to make the hard rock floor a little more comfortable.

He didn't like to sleep here. His dreams were filled with the scenes of Eames's accident; the flares lighting up the ice and the broken glass, staining Eames's hair, warning other drivers of the accident.

Arthur's imagination would go wild and he'd recreate the wreckage; the twisted metal, broken safety glass, and Eames. His poor dear Eames slumped against the steering wheel, the air bag having already deflated.

Now, a long way from home, a long way from that time, Arthur closed his eyes and thought of his damaged machine. The pieces were close to him, near to his hand and the small toolkit Arthur had thought to slip into his backpack before he left his home and time period. He was using the pack as a pillow, thinking about this place.

"The cosmic strings were like rubber bands," Arthur said, considering it- how it had felt and what had happened. He had lost control and fell through the portal as it generated before him- the machine, strapped to his forearm, blinking with warning lights as the circuits began to fail. But the portal was the fail-safe- that it would at least provide him an emergency exit while he tried to fix the problem.

Arthur had made it through the portal, free falling from a height that made him think of broken bones. It made him think of waking up- but in his desperation, Arthur had squeezed his totem and reconsidered. He wasn't so far up that he wouldn't survive. He just had to do this right.

When he hit the ground he managed to roll- he fell with a splat into the mud, sliding a bit and getting the stuff on his face, in his hair.

Blinking his eyes, the only thing he could think about was how much the mud tasted like blood. Combined with the otherness of this place with the giant trees and heavy air, Arthur could only ask himself what he had done.

The blood was his. He had bitten his lip when he took the fall and only noticed when was forced to run from dinosaurs.

The giant pterodactyls were the most insistent, and if Arthur hadn't found shelter he surely would have been eaten…

Arthur's stomach growled and he sighed to himself. He placed one hand against his rumbling stomach, pressing down and saying, "When you fix the time machine you can go back to your time and have breakfast with Eames."

He was getting so much better at saying the other man's name now. There had been times before that he couldn't get through the day without crying just a little over some small memory, or hurt, or wish that would never come true. That fact hadn't changed; when he said his name he felt the traitorous tears begin to gather in his eyes.

"When you fix the time machine you'll go home to him- you'll make him pancakes and never let him get out of bed. You'll never have to escape."

Arthur shivered to himself, despite the humid air of the days, it grew cold at night. He missed Eames's warmth at his back as he slept.

* * *

Arthur was never so glad that he had been a scout. When he found shelter in the cave, one of the first things he had done was construct a weapon to scare the pterodactyl away- he didn't care if this was the damned beast's territorial range, Arthur was here to claim it and that was that!

He had just enough tools to build a fire, to make a torch. He had a flint and matches. The point man was as prepared as he could be but he would have killed for a gun.

But he hadn't been thinking about protecting himself when his destination was just fifteen years in the past. He remembered and reinforced the idea that he was traveling through time and not space- that he had to start at home in order to return to this spot at the right time.

But something bad happened and he hadn't even left a note for his friends. He had tried, but somehow _'Hey everybody, don't mean to worry you but I'm going back in time to save Eames's life. Hugs and kisses, Arthur'_ didn't sound right.

All he had was the pocketknife, his wallet and keys, the small toolkit for time machine repairs, and a water bottle.

It had been days, but he had tried to stay positive- he was making headway with the repairs, the moss wasn't so bad once you got past the odd flavor, and Carl hadn't bothered him in a few hours.

It should be mentioned that after having dealt with this monster since his crash, Arthur decided that it needed a name- and so it was Carl, the pterodactyl. He tried to think about how funny this story would be when he got back to Eames. He'd have plenty of time to laugh about it later.

There was an ear piercing shriek at the mouth of the cave. Arthur's eyes narrowed and he reached for his burning torch and his pocket knife, stomping his way over towards the cave opening. As soon as he got close he saw the pterodactyl, he smelled the stench of tar from the pits outside of the cave. He wouldn't even begin to describe the smell of the predator; well, he could try, but it was odd. It was a kind of _blood, earth, and distilled terror_ scent.

When Arthur was close, but not so close that the creature could try and pluck him away from his shelter and tear him apart into bite-sized point man bits, Arthur yelled and swung the torch at the creature.

"Carl!" Arthur said, using his 'I'm a big bad point man, don't give me any shit' voice. "What did I tell you last time?"

When Carl screamed again, Arthur bared his teeth and struck the pterodactyl across the beak. "Repeat it with me, Carl!" Arthur screamed back. "I am not a snack! I am not a fucking entrée! If you try to eat me, Carl, I will give you heartburn!"

Then, Arthur made a quick jabbing motion, stabbing with his pocketknife but not making any severe wounds. He would have killed to blind Carl, but that would mean getting a lot closer and losing a lot more than his patience.

It screamed at him, bled only a little from the wound, but left Arthur alone. He only relaxed when it was over, but it was only a matter of time. Carl always came back, only leaving him alone during the night.

* * *

Arthur's sleeping patterns hadn't been the same after Eames's death. He had the most terrible dreams- dreams about the accident or dreams about how the accident and aftermath were all just some sick nightmare.

But mostly, Arthur used to dream about Eames's grave. Eames had very specifically asked for cremation, and rather than throw the ashes into the ocean or bury him in a cemetery plot, Arthur had taken the small urn and buried it under the willow tree in front of their house.

The hole he had dug for the urn wasn't very big. But in his dreams, the grave was large enough for Arthur to lie in- and when his fingers slipped through the cool, slightly damp earth, he encountered bones. He usually woke up after he hugged them to his chest, slowly dying as he whispered about his failures with the machine.

Now, Arthur didn't dream about Eames's garden grave. Arthur dreamed about what could possibly happen next in this period. If he were to die here, would he prefer the cold of the glaciers or the horrors of the asteroid strike?

He held his totem and tried to stay calm.

"I haven't been eaten by Carl or any of his friends yet," Arthur said to himself as he slowly and patiently worked instead of slept. When he wasn't working on the time machine repairs he was doing something else.

Using his pocketknife and a rock, he carefully worked at the wall of his cave, carving the most important thing he needed to remember while he was down here. Sure, a totem was good, but this was something different. This was for when he was feeling helpless, depressed, and alone.

When he was done, he gently blew on the wall, getting rid of the dust and running his fingers over what he had spent entire nights on.

He'd carved the forger's sweet name into the wall. Now, when Arthur felt lost he could run his fingers over the carving and feel reassured. He would know who he was doing this for, why it mattered, and he could dream about their future.

Arthur pressed his fingers to the word on the cave wall, saying it as he traced it with his fingers.

" _Eames_ ," he said it softly, like a blessing. "I'm gonna come home to you, baby."

His just saying that endearment made him smile just a little bit. Eames was better at just saying some random, sweet little name and it would work just fine. Arthur would always be Eames's _darling_ or _love_. The closest Arthur got was _Mr. Eames_ , and sometimes that didn't feel good enough.

Sometimes when Eames was sleeping, Arthur would try out some of the endearments he was most familiar with but not yet comfortable officially bestowing upon the other man. He wanted it to fit; he wanted it to work but not sound stupid…

It was looking like he had all the time in the world to try and come up with one. Well, before this age ended and killed everything bigger than germs. If he was remembering it properly, his good buddy Carl wasn't going to survive the next big extinction, so at least there was that. He would be more willing to count that in his favor if it didn't also spell his doom, too.

Arthur closed his eyes, keeping his fingers on the carving, trying to draw some strength from it. It wasn't working and he felt himself loosing the scant bit of control he had.

 _All my strife has been in vain_ , Arthur thought to himself as tears began to course down his face, making trails through the dirt and soot still smudged there. _I'm going to die here alone._

Arthur felt old- he knew that if he ever got back to Eames, the other man would probably make some terrible joke about how much closer in age they looked. Fifteen years had done predictable things to his still boyish face. His dark hair was showing the first signs of going grey, he had a few wrinkles that might pass as smile lines, and he had aches and pains where none existed before. And he was _tired_. He was just so, so tired now.

Night had fallen and the light of his torch was the only thing offering him warmth and hope. Frustrated, Arthur reached for it and quenched the flame, plunging the cave into darkness. He turned his face to the wall where he had carved Eames's name, curling up into a ball, and thinking of the glaciers that could eventually come and erase the signs of his being there, washing his words away.


	2. the mission burns, zombies are marching

A.N- Second installment in homage to Ludo's "Broken Bride". Though the second track "Save Our City" isn't acknowledged as one of the "parts" of the story, ever since the first time I heard it, I believed that it was like an introduction to the future the traveler would officially visit during "Part III: The Lamb and the Dragon". Having Arthur appear early in this song was more of a personal decision- I felt that the boy needed a little prodding to get on that ledge and who better than our point man?

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception, or Ludo, or the song "Save Our City".

my broken bride, you never breathed again

2\. the mission burns, the zombies are marching

George had grown four inches this summer. He hoped that it wouldn't be so obvious that his pants were too short in the leg or that his old long-sleeved shirt was full of holes and covered in burned spots and little smudges of blood.

They were his cleanest clothes; more to the point, they were his _only_ clothes. His mother had wanted him to look his best when he went to see the mayor.

He swallowed past the lump in his throat and knocked three times on the door to the mayor's office. He waited and swayed on his feet, feeling too _young_ for this sort of thing. George, only child of his now single mother Sylvia, had been sent to beg for the mayor's help.

George had prepared what he was going to say. He had practiced it with his mother, got all of the issues lined up, (in descending order of greatest importance) and he was struggling with his own nervousness.

 _Sir,_ he thought to himself, warming up. _The mission is burning. The zombies are marching and are getting closer to the square._

He paused and wondered if he should switch those around. The small mission couldn't accept all the families and give them shelter. It could barely provide enough food, clean water, or medical supplies. Families and other groups of unrelated people were now camping on the old marble steps of city hall. But the zombies were getting close enough to attack them all, to devour them or create more of their own kind.

As he was considering this, the office door opened. The mayor, a big burly man, was dressed as formally as anyone could during these tough times. Surely the man wouldn't zero in on George's painfully skinny wrists which were visible below his frayed cuffs. Hopefully he wouldn't spot the lack of a tie. George's mother had been of the same opinion.

 _You'd look better with a tie. Unfortunately, the last tie that I've seen is currently being used and reused as a tourniquet._

George swallowed hard as the mayor gave him a careful look, as if assessing whether or not he had been turned, but grunted and waved one hand before retreating back into the office.

The boy followed him and, after a second, quietly closed the door.

"What have you come to report, boy?"

"Families are cold, hungry, and in danger of losing the mission because of the fire."

The mayor was looking out the large windows that opened to the balcony, to the ledge. Surely the man could see what was happening out there? He should be able to hear the screaming, the fighting, and the fear driven prayers.

At night, George listened to those prayers as he was waiting for sleep to take him; in the beginning, his mother and father would shield him from the horrors, keeping him warm so he could rest. Then, after his father had joined the battles and had been taken in the fighting, it was his mother who would wrap him in her arms, pressing comforting little kisses against his filthy hair.

Now he held his mother who cried as she waited to fall asleep; she only cried then, not caring if he could hear her, just so long as she got it out and over with so she could wake in the morning and try to survive for them both. On nights like that, George would mouth those repetitious prayers, his gangly arms tightening around his poor frightened mother.

If he listened hard he could hear them from this spot, too. _Save our city and keep our souls, Lord, through the rapture of this world._

The mayor didn't appear to be moved by the words and after a moment he turned away from the window and the sight of the people, the children, and the broken or burning buildings of their city.

"Little boy, I'm just a man." He shook his head and sighed. "I'm a civil servant in a world gone to Hell. We have no government. We barely have an army! There isn't anything I can do, there's nothing more that you can do either, but rely on our king for salvation."

George bit his lip and stopped himself from saying the first words that occurred to him _. King Simius, false-king, supposed protector of our city. If he's protecting the city why do we have hailstorms of ash and fire? Why do the dead continue to attack us?_

"He will save us from this nightmare," the mayor was saying, moving to his desk, something that should have been taken to the people below so it could be chopped apart and distributed so everyone had the means to start their cooking fires, to keep warm, or use the pieces as blunt tools against their undead foes.

The mayor was opening a drawer and rummaging inside it as he spoke. "I've allied with our King. He will save us from that tyrant God and those undead troops of Heaven. I'm just a man," the mayor was saying again, as if he needed to remind George.

When the mayor turned, George could see what he had searched for. The mayor was now holding a gun.

George's fingers itched at the sight of a real weapon. The number of guns and blades were too few for the civilians to protect themselves- when the zombies made it to the square and the small encampment of survivors they would have to run. George knew that just one gun wasn't going to do it- they'd need dozens of them in order to have even the smallest chance and pushing the invading undead back!

"My time has come," the mayor said, raising the gun, admiring it briefly. "Long live King Simius, may he deliver us from this nightmare!"

George couldn't bring himself to watch as the mayor put the gun in his mouth. The boy turned his head and squeezed his eyes shut. He pressed his hands against his ears, hoping to block the noise of the shot.

It wasn't as loud as he had initially thought- it was a _popping_ noise like a firecracker. The mayor made a louder noise when he crashed to the ground and died.

George opened his eyes and pulled his hands away from his ears after a moment passed, thinking that the drama of the horrible moment had passed. The man was dead, his brains and blood were decorating one wall and the carpet.

Cringing to himself and counting slowly, George did the completely necessary thing that might have made his mother and father proud.

George knelt down and picked up the still warm gun from where it lay on the carpet. The major's lips must have unwrapped from the barrel of the gun; it must have fallen from his hand when died and hit the floor.

Holding it with two fingers, George wasn't sure what to do with the weapon now that it was his. How could he check to see if there had been more than one bullet inside it? He asked himself more ridiculous questions, worrying over what the others would do or say once they learned he had something a little better than a rock. It was probably as good as a rock if he couldn't use it!

And then, there was a noise.

Drawn to the window, George looked at the sky and saw something amazing.

It was a blast like the sun! A light that hurt to look at, a light that grew in intensity before winking out like a star!

Little spots blossomed before George's eyes, forcing him to blink several times. What color was that light? Red? Blue?

That question was forgotten when he noticed that there was something, maybe _someone_ falling outside the city proper.

George made the decision before he had more time to think about it. He ignored the body of their former mayor and left to investigate.

* * *

It was a man.

George watched him carefully and noticed that he was still breathing after the fall he had taken. Aside from that, the man was unshaven, dirty, and appeared to have been in some sort of fight.

The man was wounded and marked with deep gouging scratches across his shoulders and back that were bleeding lightly as he lay on the grass.

Trying to stay aware of his surroundings, George edged closer to the unconscious man who had fallen from the sky. He nudged the man's side with his shoe but didn't get a response. He frowned and did it again, nudging him a little bit harder.

Suddenly, the man's eyes shot open and he grabbed George by the ankle. George screamed and tried to jerk his leg away from the man on the ground. He pulled so hard that he managed to get out of the other man's hold but fell backwards to the ground, as well.

Now on the same level with the mysterious man, George tried to scramble away.

"Hey," the man was saying, his voice rough. He frowned as if the sound of his own voice was confusing- like maybe he hadn't heard it in awhile. The man tried again. "What year is it, kid?"

George was about to open his mouth, ready to say something along the lines of, 'Hey, don't call me kid' when he shook it off. He couldn't claim to be a grown man if he bitched and moaned every time somebody made a comment or called him a name.

"It's the end of the world," George said instead. "The mayor just shot himself, the Dragon is rising, and the dead are answering its call. You wouldn't happen to be some kind of hero, would you?"

The man stared at him blankly for a few seconds, touching the device he wore on his arm. The lights still glowed as he pressed a few buttons, examining it closely.

"I've overshot the mark again," he was saying to himself. "Baby, how am I ever going to make it back to you at this rate?"

"Excuse me?"

The man focused on George once more and straightened up. He forced himself to stand and offered George a hand up.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not a hero. I'm just a time traveler."

George's eyes widened.

"You mean that you just came from a place in time that wasn't at the edge of destruction?"

The man snorted. "No. I fell into a time period full of dinosaurs and barely escaped _their_ destruction. It's just my luck to travel all the way to the apocalypse!"

Their pleasant conversation was interrupted by the arrival of zombies on the march to the city. Before the time traveler could speak, George slapped his hand across his mouth and forced him to follow him to the nearby cover of trees. Not that they would do much good once the zombies caught the scent of the new man's bloody wounds.

But, rather than fall upon them like hungry savages, these uniformed walking corpses began to chant as one, their shuffling steps providing an inconsistent beat. There was groaning, moaning, and then this:

 _Cursed in death we starve for flesh…_

Beyond that, the articulation faded out. The dead soldiers marched, passing George and the traveler by and leaving them unscathed.

Both heaved shaky sighs of relief once the dead men were on their way.

"So you said that there's an apocalypse?"

"More like a rapture, sir."

The traveler quirked an eyebrow before he smiled. George couldn't help but notice that his teeth were stained _green_.

"Well, six of one and half a dozen of the other, George. Care to take me to your leader?"

George did better than that.

* * *

George's mother stared at the man he had brought to her. He honestly thought that his first explanation would be accepted.

 _He's a time traveler, ma!_

She sniffed and eyed the stranger's wounds. "I don't know, George- Mr. Time Traveler sure bleeds like everybody else."

This made the traveler hide a smirk and nod. "Yes. It's a shame I'm not more like Doctor Who; regeneration will never be a factor for me."

She stopped prodding one of his cuts, grunting a bit before muttering, "Never heard of him."

"I really _am_ at the end of days."

The traveler submitted to her examinations without further comments, only asking that she not bother the device strapped to his arm. She was leery of it anyways and worked around it, finally agreeing that though the man had been through hell he appeared to be in decent health. She turned her attention to her son.

"Did you speak to the mayor, George?"

George paled and nodded quickly. "He shot himself, ma! Right in the head!"

Her mouth became one thin foreboding line. George wasn't the only one to flinch at the sight of his mother's disapproval. The traveler also made some involuntary jerk in response to that look, though the man was clearly past the days of youth and well into middle age.

Thankfully, there was the sound of something exploding and a shriek to take his mother's attention away from them. Sylvia sprung into action as she did during each emergency here at the camp- she was one of the few capable of offering first aid. She could set broken bones, sew up wounds, and treat burns.

From the smell, it appeared that his mother was going to be treating several burn victims, using what little supplies they had to ward off infections. There was next to nothing they could do for the pain.

George watched as his mother set to work with that eerie calm, the kind that always disappeared in the night. He had once thought his mother was like an unbeatable force of nature, but that changed after he heard her crying after he was supposed to be asleep.

The traveler was frowning as he watched George's mother help a few others transport the stricken to a small tented area.

"Heck of a woman," the man said to himself, before turning and walking away.

George trailed after him, moving as fast as he could through the crowds. Gangly limbed and four inches taller than he was used to, poor George wasn't graceful and quick like the traveler was, despite how exhausted the man appeared. And, yet the traveler kept moving.

"Where are you going?" George asked as he finally caught up to the man.

"I'm looking for your leader- I need to speak to someone about your power supplies, your resources. I need to get home!"

Huffing and puffing, "I already told you! He's dead!"

The traveler stopped and turned…and he was _smiling_. It was so bizarre, but George almost wanted to smile back.

"I know that, George," the traveler reminded him, offering him the smile that was one part _crazy_ and one part _clever._ "You've already told me that the mayor is dead. Lucky me, your dead don't like to stay that way."

George couldn't believe it! The traveler was going to try and talk sense to a zombie.

He had already pointed out the few sights of the city, so the traveler was making his way to City Hall, weaving his way around the tents, camps, and watchful survivors.

George ran after him, calling to him, finally catching up when he made a very small suggestion.

"Could I interest you in a weapon?"

* * *

The gun that George had lifted off of the mayor's corpse had no more bullets. George was a little surprised to see that the traveler knew how to check the ammunition! How he looked at it carefully, pulled out the empty clip and tossed it away, only passing George back the empty gun when he was finished with it.

"May not have any bullets, but a blunt object is still a blunt object."

George had shown him a small area for trading and bartering; while passing through, several people eyed the stranger, looked at his ragged and torn clothing, at the device on his arm.

It was true that there weren't enough weapons, but that didn't mean that a few took risks and raided the battlefields to harvest weapons from the dead soldiers before they had a chance to rise again. After a quick discussion, the traveler allowed George to negotiate for a weapon. His still functioning wristwatch was traded for something better than an empty gun.

George watched the man test the weight of his new sword, looking so otherworldly as he practiced a few slashes and parries with that strange device blinking away with calming blue lights. It occurred to him that this traveler had to be more than just a man lost in time, some strange scientist or inventor on a quest. This man was also trained as a warrior. George was certain that a warrior would still be a warrior even when dressed in a torn t-shirt and jeans, in need of a bath, and hungry for a filling meal.

The traveler nodded his satisfaction, sheathing the nicked blade and forgoing a sword belt for the sake of time and ease.

* * *

Needless to say, when they got to the mayor's office it was occupied by the _zombie_ of the mayor.

As George was worried he would, the mayor had at some point risen from the dead in his absence and did…nothing.

When they forced the door open, what remained of the mayor was standing at the window, looking down at the clusters of people.

The former mayor said a word, or something that sounded like a word. It almost sounded like _boy_. The zombie turned to greet them, and George flinched back at the sight of his ruined face, his broken teeth, and the gore that still dripped from exit wound at the back of his head.

The traveler didn't say or do anything; his reaction was so slight that it would have taken years of careful study to pinpoint the moment when he assessed the situation, found that there was no hope in his original plan, and then did what had to be done.

Before the zombie could lunge forwards, the traveler and shoved George away and drew his sword! With one carefully timed swing he took the mayor's head clean off of his shoulders, letting both it and the body fall with a resounding _thump_.

George, trying to hold back his whimpers, looked at the figure the traveler made, standing triumphantly in front of his kill. But the traveler clearly wasn't satisfied with it- it brought him no joy.

He quickly cleaned the blade with one of the window's curtains, sheathing it and looking at George as if for more information.

"He was all we had, but in his last moments," George made a gesture at the beheaded corpse, "the _first time_ he died, he allied himself with King Simius…"

The traveler frowned. "I have a bad feeling about that."

George laughed weakly. "Oh, you should! Some of the remaining citizens believe that he's a false king, a monster as terrible as the Dragon! But who else do we have to look to for guidance? What's going to happen now?"

The traveler remained silent, looking out the window at the faces of the people and caught the sound of their prayers.

He was thinking and touching the device he wore on his arm with a sort of longing; it was clear that all he had to do was press a few buttons and then he could be free from this nightmare and let someone else shoulder the burden of the apocalypse.

But he removed his hand from the device and touched the locked window instead.

"George," he began slowly. "Did your mother name you after the saint?"

He was watching the skies, frowning to himself and planning.

George shook his head. "No, I'm named for my grandfather. He didn't slay dragons and I doubt that I'll be able to, either."

The traveler laughed and unlatched the window, letting it fly open. A sudden wind made the curtains flutter about and filled the office with the scent of burning.

"Well, I'm never going to be like King Arthur though my mother did love Malory," the traveler said with a wry sort of smile. "I'll admit that the sword is pretty cool. But I think that at this moment, I'm going to have to play a different role. I'm your adviser, your Merlin."

Arthur, the traveler, gestured to the crowds below. "They need to follow someone right now, George. And they need hope more than anything. Talk to them."

George was transported back to the long ago moment when he had stood at the mayor's door earlier in the day. His nerves were up, his felt a little sick, but he could hear the prayers of his fellow citizens and he couldn't just _run_.

So, George took several steps, taking special pleasure in kicking away the severed head of their fallen mayor and stepped out of the window and onto the ledge, holding onto the frame and shouting to the masses below.

"The mayor has fallen!" He swallowed hard, licked his chapped lips and struggled with the words. "There's a time to pray and there's a time to fight! Please, I know that we don't have much, but anything can be a weapon if you're holding it right."

He leaned out a little too far and would have fallen from the ledge had the traveler not grasped the back of George's shirt and pulled him back.

"We can either wait for our city to be saved from the troops of the dead or we can save it ourselves! Defend what is yours, rise now and fight!"

Down below, the knots of people had become larger. They were now crowds and masses, all staring up at him. They were listening!

But what would they care about what he said? He was just George, a stupid boy, barely fourteen years of age, stretched thin and hungry just like many other children of the broken city.

But, it started slowly and grew. It was an answering roar from the people below.

George waved, but failed to spot his mother in the crowd. He was sure that he would see her soon. Maybe she'd give him a slap for being so foolish, but maybe she'd give him a big hug afterwards for being so stupid _and_ brave.

He pulled himself back into the office and found the traveler leaning against the wall that wasn't splattered with the mayor's brain matter. For a moment, he looked sad. He was clenching something small and red in one hand. The man put it away into a pocket of his jeans, but not before George caught a glimpse of it. It looked like a small red die, maybe one half to a pair. George put it out of his mind, leaning against the mayor's desk and considering the next move.

"So, do you have any ideas?"

The traveler's private moment of melancholy faded but didn't leave him completely. He appeared to be accustomed to its weight, and shrugged at George's question.

"I don't know about you, but I'd kill for three things."

"What?"

"A hot meal, a bath, and a toothbrush."


	3. airbag held you till the engine slept

A.N: Third installment, "Part 2: Tonight's the Night"! I've decided that this part will be more dream sequence than anything else (because in an Inception fic you have to mention dreaming) and used the song as inspiration for this type of scene. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception. I also don't own Ludo or their music.

my broken bride, you never breathed again

3\. _the airbag held you till the engine slept_

"Hello, Arthur."

The point man opened his eyes, certain that he had only just closed them a moment ago. That he had been told to sit in a chair, perhaps the one that had belonged to the mayor, and wait for some food, wait for that toothbrush, and wait for something that _passed_ for a bath during the End of Days.

When Arthur recognized that voice, he fought his base instinct; the very first desire that slammed through him, grating against his broken heart and frayed nerves. He wanted to remember what being safe felt like. He wanted to remember what it was like to have someone at his back, always watching his six. Someone who didn't like to be more than a handbreadth away from him, someone who found silly excuses to touch him. Arthur swallowed hard and turned to where he had heard the voice, struggling with himself.

"Hello, Eames."

If he were dreaming, then this image, this projection was as perfect a representation of Eames as he was going to get. Right now, at least. For now, they were together, standing on a perfect stretch of sand. They were at the beach.

The projection stood, eerily silent but just as watchful as Eames would be. He was perfect in his likeness, even down to his small imperfections that had become so dear to Arthur over the years. He was even wearing the same thing he had worn on their last trip to the shore! The sight of him was like balm on an open wound, something that both stung him and soothed him all at once.

"Are you going to pull a Cobb on me, darling? Are you going to say that you can't trust me?"

Arthur couldn't stop himself from flinching. It wasn't a lack of trust that stopped Arthur from engaging with his projection of Eames. It was his need to keep the goal in mind, to not dwell on a projection of Eames when what he needed was the living and breathing man to be at his side in the waking world! He needed to keep the two separate in his mind; it was obvious that he had failed so far, as the projection watched him and waited for an answer.

"No," Arthur said as he thought, _it's my subconscious, this Eames is really another shape for my desires and secrets_. "I could always trust you. But you're not real. The man I'm going to save is god-knows how many years in the past, waking up on a morning in May."

The projection cocked his head to the side and smiled a slow, achingly familiar smile.

"But darling, how do you know that you aren't dreaming all of that up?"

The point man sighed. He should have expected this.

He looked down his body, at his torn clothing. Before he had left his time period he had chosen to wear something that Eames would like- that as much as he had liked Arthur dressed up in one of his suits, he always preferred it when Arthur would dress down and wear t-shirts and jeans. He was wearing the remnants of a shirt Eames had liked, of the jeans that Arthur had liked to wear on lazy Sundays. But Arthur could feel it, the bone deep ache that said he was still fifteen years older than this youthful Eames, trapped at the age Arthur last saw him at. _He_ didn't have wrinkles. _He_ didn't have grey hair. Arthur was certain that he hadn't dreamed the fifteen year absence and all of its predictable changes.

"If my time travel misadventures were nothing but a dream, why do I still look like hell? Why do I look fifteen years older than you?"

The projection shrugged. "I didn't say that you were out of the dream just yet. Maybe you slipped another level down. Maybe you're waiting for the kick to bring you back to me."

Arthur frowned and ignored him, choosing to walk through the dreamscape. Sand, sand, sand! The shore wasn't too far away, and from his spot he could see the way the waves glinted in the bright summer sun.

The projection followed him swiftly.

"Remember when we'd come here? Every summer you liked to take me to the southern shore so we could get some sun and collect the fossils we found in the sand!"

Arthur also remembered how he'd hold the other man's hand when they did that. The urge was strong, but he forced himself to ignore it.

"We can do that now, if you like?" The projection offered, cheerful and pleased to be in his company.

"This isn't really the southern shore of our beach, it isn't summer, and I just want to go home. I just want to save your life!"

"I feel fine," the projection was saying, patting himself down as he walked, ruffling the front of his partially buttoned shirt, wearing his old beach shorts and walking barefoot through the sand. "No broken ribs, no cracked sternum! My lungs are wonderful!"

But it didn't matter if they felt fine in a dream. These reassurances wouldn't change the fact that Arthur _knew_ what happened.

"You just don't get it, do you?" Arthur said. "Don't you think I'd wake up from this if I could? Don't you think I would have tried that already if it was so simple?"

Arthur didn't have to say that he had several visitors, constant visitors after Eames's death. Ariadne had come to provide support and keep an eye. Yusuf had spent more time to grieve over his lost friend but he had also watched Arthur carefully. And then, there was Cobb. Cobb, who shouldn't have been so quick to decide that Arthur would try and follow Eames, or that he'd try to escape from the grief in PASIV assisted dreaming.

But Cobb had offered many cautionary tales of his time after Mal had killed herself, of the aftermath and its effect on his mind, and how it obviously effected his dreaming.

 _She kept trying to tell me that this wasn't real. It was like I was going to be haunted by my incepting her. I tried building a place to keep her safe in my mind, but it didn't work. I locked her in my memories and that's where I'd go when I used the PASIV most nights. Because in my dreams we were still together._

Arthur had to shake it off; his thoughts of Cobb's obsession with his dead wife and his guilt over having incepted her wouldn't help him fight off his own insistent projection, his shade.

"I nearly lost my mind when I lost you," Arthur was saying, staying as far from Eames as he felt possible. "I buried myself in my work- I built you that time machine!"

The projection laughed. "Of course, you did. And I'm sure you tried to come up with a neat name for it."

Arthur _had_ tried, but he didn't want to talk about that.

"I've been busy naming other things- like, when I get back to my time and stop your accident, I'm going to tell you an awesome story about a pterodactyl named Carl."

"You could tell me now and save some time."

Now, he just couldn't take it!

Arthur spun and faced this Eames, this fake Eames, this Eames that was the best he could come up with when he was at his lowest, so close to failure he could taste it!

"Just stop it! I want to save all these things, all the conversations, all the joking, all the inconsolable crying for when I get back to you for real! I want to go home! I want to go home to _you_ , but this isn't fair to either of us!"

And, true to Arthur's memory of him, the projection of Eames edged closer and took him into his arms, as if Arthur wouldn't punch him in the throat and then run into the waves to get away.

And because no one could see him, no one was watching the brave traveler be confronted with the image of one so dear and so very lost, Arthur didn't fight for his freedom.

He allowed himself to be embraced; he let himself be snuggled against the still warm folds of Eames's shirt. He promised himself he wouldn't cry, but with the emotional upheavals he had been treated to- from his having crashed before the birth of Christ to his having landed in a future where the world would most assuredly _burn-_ Arthur counted himself lucky that he was only a little misty eyed. He could cry later. He could cry much, much later.

"You don't understand," Arthur was whispering, just loud enough to be heard over the crashing waves. "I don't want to be with you _here_. I want to rescue you so that maybe someday you'll find me on this beach beside you again, in the waking world during summer."

The projection of Eames sighed and carefully petted Arthur's hair. "I know. I know because you know. It's hard being a shade, love. I'm only what you can't bring yourself to forget."

Arthur hummed and clung to him; tighter, in need of what small amount of comfort he could get from this. He knew it was a dream, _he knew it was a dream_ , but would it be so bad for him to just relax for a moment?

"What do I do?" Arthur was asking. "What do I do?"

"You'll do exactly what has to be done, love. You'll do it with terrifying competence. You'll fix everything. And you'll bring me back." Arthur could almost hear the smile in his voice. "But you'll have to wake up first."

Arthur pulled away from Eames for a second, not so lost in the moment that he'd let _that_ line slip his mind.

But before he could say anything he felt a hand on his shoulder and something hot spill down his shirt front. He forced himself further from Eames, not wanting him to get burnt, when he experienced a sensation similar to falling backwards.

Then he woke up.

* * *

He had leaned back in the chair. Arthur blinked his eyes open, registering the burning feeling against his chest, brushing away a pair of hands that were trying to blot the stains from his chest.

Now, more awake than ever, Arthur could see that it was George doing the blotting. George had been doing the blotting with a dirty rag because George had spilled soup on Arthur while the man slept. Well, at least Arthur was hoping that it was soup that George was holding away from the still prone point man, as if he were certain he'd accidentally spill some more.

Arthur reached for the worn cup that was more than half-full of the steaming something-or-other that smelled a lot like soup. Arthur was swallowing it down too quickly, but it was the first meal he'd had in what felt like centuries. He was happy it wasn't moss.

When he was finished swallowing down the hot soup he passed the cup back to the startled young man and asked, "How did we do on the toothbrush and bath situation?"

George nodded quickly and placed the empty cup on the mayor's old desk. He stuck a hand in one pocket and pulled a rolled up, almost empty tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush that seemed to be pretty new. He offered them to Arthur as if they were sacred, special things.

"My ma found the toothbrush still in the package. That's the last toothpaste we've got."

Arthur nodded gratefully, taking them and thinking of how wonderful it was going to be to brush his teeth.

"The bath?"

George shook his head. "We don't have enough water to fill a tub, but we can get you a small bucket and a clean cloth."

Arthur was trying very hard not to grab the empty cup and attempt to lick the inside for stray droplets of soup. To take his mind off of it he thought about his last attempt at bathing.

"The last time I bathed was before I left the cave. There was a storm and it rained for like ten or fifteen minutes- the water was warm, almost like a shower, and I stood under it for as long as I could. Carl didn't even try to bother me until the end. But, by that point I was ready to leave that time for good."

"Carl?" George asked, curious.

"Big, big fucking pterodactyl. Liked to try and kill me and make me into tasty point man bits."

"Oh," George said slowly. "That sounds terrible."

Arthur cleared his throat and waved the toothbrush and toothpaste at George.

"Can I get that bucket as soon as possible? I'd like to brush my teeth before I foul the water with mud, blood, and who-knows-what."

George did as he was asked.

He brought the bucket filled with water, the clean cloth, a small cake of soap, and, interestingly enough, a razor.

When Arthur made a comment, George shrugged. "My ma said you might like a shave."

After that, George had left to give him privacy, instructing him to leave his clothes outside the door so they could be seen to and replaced.

Arthur rubbed one hand against his bristly chin and cheeks, frowning to himself over how roguish and unkempt he must look. His second thought was that Eames would have loved to see him like this. His third thought was that he sort of already had.

But he had to stop thinking of the projection of Eames like that. He was a shade, a product of Arthur's stressed and lonely mind. He was just what he need at the moment, so he dreamed the man up.

It was that simple.

But it didn't change how he felt about his dream; even his projection's insistence that this might be a dream. Arthur frowned at that. It couldn't be, he still had his totem and was reassured that this was reality. It was terrifying and fantastic but it was still reality.

He had to put the thought out of his mind. He pressed one hand to his time machine and carefully unstrapped it from his arm. He left it on the desk, safe from the bucket of water, so he could try and make himself look a little more presentable.


	4. i've got dragons of my own

A.N: Part 3, Chapter Four! This was inspired by the longest song on the album (just over eight minutes long) "Part 3: The Lamb and the Dragon". Please enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception. I don't own Ludo or their music.

my broken bride, you never breathed again

 _4\. i've got dragons of my own_

Arthur had never been happier to pull off his torn and filthy clothing. He yanked his shirt over his head, wincing as the material dragged over the cuts on his shoulders and back. Sylvia had said they were shallow, but Arthur couldn't help but be dragged back to a vivid sense memory of how he had gotten them.

* * *

 _The raptors had come soon after he had exited the cave- Carl was absent, and bizarrely, Arthur was sad to see the big scary pterodactyl gone._

 _Armed only with his pocketknife and torch, Arthur ran for it! The huge trees would swallow him up; the leaves and the water they had collected would surely extinguish his torch within moments. Charging away, Arthur fought to keep each breath. He fought against the urge to turn his head and look at the creatures that hunted him. He also fought against the mad urge to laugh._

 _He was certain that Eames would find this exciting- that he'd demand his grenade launcher or at least something bigger than a pocketknife. Something like a machete would do nicely, he imagined Eames sighing to him._

 _But he had to get Eames out of his head- the dead man couldn't do him any good in this fight, that grenade launcher was lurking somewhere in his mind. Not here, not now._

 _That mad laugh was beginning to claw its way up his throat, the sharp claws of it scraping him bloody._

 _And then one of the beasts jumped! Arthur was shocked at its speed, at the sheer power of its forward momentum as it got close enough to sink its claws into his shoulders and slash downwards, trying to take him to the ground._

 _Arthur screamed at the top of his voice, turning wildly and driving his sputtering torch into the raptor's face. It only served to illuminate it better- Arthur could swear that he was close enough to count every single one of those deadly teeth- but Arthur bared his own before doing what he'd become accustomed to in these battles._

 _He forced the torch into the beast's snapping jaws, forcing the thing to choke on fire. Arthur only realized that he was still screaming when the roaring in his ears ceased. When it did he saw the other raptors approaching, swift and dangerous and clearly hungry._

 _He let his ruined pack drop from his shoulders, groaning at the pain and not thinking about what a more delectable treat he had become after this brief encounter. He could smell his own blood on the air and to his shock and revulsion he felt his stomach rumble in hunger._

 _Ignoring it all, Arthur kicked the useless pack away and forced the blade of his pocketknife in-between his teeth, unwillingly grinning around the dirty metal._

 _He began to run again, hugging the tree line but not entering. He began to press a series of buttons on his machine, engaging the fuel cells one by one, powering up the device to generate the portal._

 _Arthur's breath came out in harsh pants. He felt the blood oozing down his back. He heard the noise of the raptors. They were shrieking little devils; very intelligent and eager for their meal, but willing to play with him, like he was a particularly tasty bit of vermin._

 _The device on his arm began to glow light blue. That light raced up his arm and spread over his entire body, a precaution against any part of him falling outside of the range of the time machine. All of his careful testing and research, all of his failed prototypes; it had all led to this filthy little machine, which he had to furtively hide within the cave when he stood in the rain for one of his few chances to bathe. Despite his careful maintenance, there were scratches on the body of the device that Arthur could read like Braille, telling the story of his journey here._

 _And here, he'd think, was when I first met that bastard Carl- he nearly took my arm off. Or, he'd think, pointing to a different spot, that's the bloodstain left when I accidentally stabbed myself with the screwdriver!_

 _The screwdriver made him remember how the entire toolkit had been inside the pack. But it was gone now, and he'd better hope that he managed to get back to that morning in May with this next jump!_

 _He ran, leaving a_ _phosphorescent_ _blue light trailing after him, like he was some bizarre shooting star. It made him way too visible, but he was already approaching what he needed._

 _The portal began to form a few feet ahead of him, glowing brightly at the edge of the cliff. If he timed it right he'd get through before the raptors could latch onto him again. If he timed it right he'd make it through and lead the remaining raptors to fall to their deaths._

 _If he_ didn't _time it right, he'd fall to his death, never save Eames's life, and have three fucking_ smug _raptors looking down at his broken remains. Then he and Eames would be broken things, unable to be fixed. Maybe, long after their deaths, the particles that made them would float across all of time and space. Maybe they'd eventually find their way to one another, and then, they'd be together._

 _But that was one big maybe._

 _Arthur was yards away from the portal. It was wavering, shivering in the air like a mirage, and Arthur almost swallowed his tongue._

 _He didn't dare chance a look at the device on his arm- the fuel cells were being drained! He had to get to the portal and take his chance right now!_

 _He pulled the knife from between his teeth, noticing how it was also glowing blue. As he ran, he snapped it closed and shoved it inside his pocket, taking a flying leap and diving through the portal seconds before it winked out of existence._

* * *

Arthur came back to himself. He shook his head and resumed his work.

He removed every stitch and carefully handed the bundles to George. The only thing on his mind was getting clean. The only thing he wanted was to feel human once more.

The water in the bucket was already getting cold.

He brushed his teeth first, using the smallest amount of water necessary to complete the task twice- no _three_ times!

After Arthur found a waste basket and spat the foam into it, he took the used cake of soap, the razor, and cloth and set to work.

* * *

George didn't mean to find it.

Well, not really. He had been looking through the traveler's pockets. Privately, he was certain that these pieces of clothing couldn't be salvaged- he'd already planned for it. His mother had helped him, found him old clothes that might fit the traveler. He didn't think that he would say no to the clothes, but all the same, George wasn't going to say that these items had been pulled off of the dying.

He'd been lucky to find the traveler a shirt that wasn't stained with blood around the neckband, as it had long become a habit to decapitate the dead before burial. They didn't need more zombies than they could handle, they didn't need zombies popping up like weeds in their remaining burial plots.

If they had enough wood to spare they would instead be prepared for cremation.

George tried to move his thoughts away from those subjects. Things might get better now that the traveler was here. He was smart, he was brave, and he had said that he would help George.

So, when George fished through the traveler's pockets, the first object he found was a bloody pocketknife.

He dropped it in his surprise. George had been certain that the traveler had been unarmed when he had found him. More to the point, when George had offered him a weapon, the traveler had said nothing about this little knife.

George took a deep breath and did what his father used to remind him of. That he had to breathe; that he should always think before getting upset, that everyone had their reasons and that in these times, no one felt safe.

George just let it go. The traveler had a knife to defend himself with- but what good would it have done against the mayor? Close combat, having no idea if those who have been bitten or scratched by a zombie would become one as well- the traveler had only done what everyone else would. He thought of his survival. But truly, he had only used that sword to save George's life.

The sword was in the office with the traveler, leaning against a wall, his to use. George had gotten it for _him_. It was fine.

He breathed out and silently thanked his father for that little bit of advice.

Now, he searched through the traveler's pockets in the mind that he would give the items back to him. It was likely that the pocketknife was a secondary weapon, or had been his only weapon on his long journey. The second item George had plucked out of the traveler's pocket was the single red die he had seen him palming. Curious, he rolled it on the floor and noticed that it kept coming up with the same number. No matter how many times he rolled it, it would come up four. He shrugged, not sure why the traveler had a loaded die, but he placed it next to the pocket knife and continued the search.

The third thing that George pulled from the traveler's pockets was a wallet. His eyes widened when he caught sight of it. It had been some time since he'd seen a wallet. His father had one and now George's mother kept it, often opening it up and peeking inside to see their little family photo behind a little sheath of clear plastic. It was the last photo they had of their family and George tried to not notice that when his mother sobbed herself to sleep she was often holding that wallet with its little family photo pressed against her chest. He just held her all the tighter.

Unthinkingly, George pressed his nose to the smooth black leather and inhaled. Real leather was distinctive, the scent tickling his nose. He could smell old paper money, useless in this future.

He opened it and looked inside. There were cards made of plastic, credit cards, he recalled swiftly. There was another card in a prominent little window, the first thing one would see upon opening it. It was important then. The little card was an identification card, only notable because it held a smiling picture of the traveler, looking much younger than he did now.

 _But maybe_ , George thought to himself. _Maybe that's what time travel does_. He caught himself almost smiling back at that winning, dimpled grin.

He read the information on the card; the traveler's birth date, his eye and hair color, his height, and gender. There was a listing for a home address, a listing in California. He almost laughed. Just the thought of both he and the traveler being from the same state was enough to make him chuckle at the irony! Well, maybe in _his_ time, the apocalypse hadn't happened yet.

He carefully read the traveler's full name. He already knew that his first name was Arthur- he had introduced himself, he had made a King Arthur joke. But he had never said what his last name was.

George read it to himself several times, enjoying it. _Eames._ He really liked the sound of it. He tried it again, smiling at the traveler's picture on the identification card. _Hello, Mr. Arthur Eames_.

That was when he noticed another little plastic window in the wallet. It was the only one that had a picture, and he was strongly reminded of the picture in his father's wallet. George looked at the little photograph that had been carefully placed inside the window.

It was an old, worn photo. It looked like it had been thumbed out of its slot many times, like the edges had been blurred by adoring fingers. He was hesitant to touch the picture on those spots, like he'd be ruining something private, something cherished.

The picture was of a man holding a seashell. He was big through the shoulders, his shirt unbuttoned and exposing his chest. He had tattoos and what George's mother might call a shit-eating grin. Though if George looked at his eyes, he could something shinning there, something better than the sunshine; because while the man's crooked smile said _look, I'm being a bastard aren't I?_ the look in his eyes positively proclaimed _but you love me, you love me, and I love you too!_

His affection was apparent. If pictures were truly worth a thousand words, this particular photo would be worth several thousand more, easy.

George wondered who this man was supposed to be. What did he mean to the traveler? Was this the person he was struggling so hard to get back to- the one the traveler called _baby?_

He had slid down the wall and sat down to better inspect the wallet and its contents. He didn't notice the sound of pounding feet on the stairs.

No, worse than pounding feet, George thought. He could hear _boots._

He shoved the wallet, pocketknife, and loaded die into his own pocket, scrambling to his feet just as the uniformed soldiers rounded the corner and spotted him.

Helmeted, armed with guns, and definitely _not_ happy to see a witness, the soldiers came to a stop before the closed door to the mayor's office.

The leader, a brown haired man that was just as dirty, just as tired, and just as jaded as his fellows, watched him with open suspicion.

"Leave now and we won't have to send you to your mommy in pieces."

George thanked his father's tips and tricks for keeping his cool. He was most certain that this man wouldn't really like George's snappy comeback. George wanted to say, ' _my mommy will gut you with a broken bottle, sir.'_

Before George could say anything, the door to the mayor's office was swinging open. The soldier's had drawn their weapons and were clearly prepared to fire at the figure within the doorway.

Needless to say, the sight was disarming. Standing there naked as the day he was born, the freshly washed traveler was rubbing the slightly damp cloth against his hair, drying it. In his other hand he held the sword, tilted at an angle like a walking stick rather than a weapon. His eyes were even closed, as if he didn't quite care who was standing in the hall.

The time machine glowed and blinked on his forearm.

After a moment of stunned silence from the soldiers, the traveler blinked open one eye and smirked.

"Wow," the traveler said. "I didn't know that the army delivered clothes to the needy. I'm very grateful, but I doubt that I'd look good in camouflage fatigues…at least I didn't look good in them the _last_ time I had to wear them."

The leading soldier had come forwards bearing a uniform similar to his own. It was standard issue for those called into service; it was done in shades of tan, brown, green, and grey. He shoved the neatly folded uniform against the traveler's bare chest, pushing him backwards just a little, and only because the traveler allowed it.

The traveler swayed back with the motion, eyeing the clothing for a moment, an eyebrow raised in imperious judgment.

George had to stifle a snort of laughter at that expression. The traveler could pull off being a king, he probably could in a snap.

The leader sneered at the traveler, looking him up and down, before focusing on the device strapped to his arm. The soldier forced his attention back to the traveler's unimpressed expression.

"You either wear the uniform or you take the hike barefoot and naked. It's your choice."

George didn't look down at what remained of the traveler's shoes, which had been passed to him along with the torn clothing. George thought that he could still wear them; the laces tied and the soles were mostly intact. But what the soldier had implied was that they wouldn't let the traveler _have_ his shoes if he continued to be difficult.

The traveler frowned and then sighed. He dropped the wash cloth to the ground and made a 'gimme' gesture with his free hand.

The traveler wordlessly accepted the clothing and began to dress right there, unselfconscious but still somehow defiant. It wasn't in his actions, but it seemed to burn from his eyes. "Let's go for a walk."

Now, the traveler looked at George and pointedly said, "You go on and get back to your mother."

George nodded quickly and was stopped when he tried to take his first few steps.

"No, no," the leader of this group of soldiers said. "We're bringing the boy along with us, traveler. Gotta keep you honest."

Then the man smiled at the traveler and yanked his sword away. "You'll get this back when we can trust you a little bit more."

The traveler narrowed his eyes but did nothing else- without his scruffy beard he looked a little younger than before. If one ignored the lines on his face, his slightly graying hair, or the weariness in his eyes, he might have been a match for the smiling young man on the identification card inside the wallet. George pressed one hand against it and felt oddly reassured.

"Where will you be taking me and George?"

As one, the soldiers shared a smile. Devoid of rank but doggedly following the soldier they thought higher on the totem pole, the others looked to this soldier and relied on him to answer and speak for them.

"I'm only doing what you've asked, traveler. I'm taking you to our leader, King Simius."

* * *

Arthur frowned at the sun. "Did that happen while I was washing up?"

The soldiers didn't answer.

"Cause it looks kind of bad."

Once again, no answer.

"It's like someone has covered the sun with black sackcloth made of hair, but feel free to offer your own interpretations. It's pitch black, moody, and not at all hopeful."

And the silence continued.

Arthur looked over to George who was carefully avoiding rocks and weeds and small biting bugs. He kept smacking one hand against the exposed skin of his face and neck, killing one or two but failing to discourage the horde of hungry bugs.

"I wouldn't say that it's supposed to be hopeful," George had to pause and smack at himself again. "It's the end of the world, sir." The young man rolled his eyes and crushed another bug. "Stars are falling to the earth and our mountains are just tearing from the ground- we're long past thinking that they're simple asteroids and earthquakes. We've got rains of blood, an ocean of slime topped with dead sea creatures, and a Dragon calling our dead to rise as zombies. If this _isn't_ the apocalypse, Mr. Eames, I don't know what is!"

Arthur froze, shuffled to a stop and stared at the boy. George noticed his lack of movement and quickly looked at the relentlessly marching soldiers. The boy quickly rushed over and tried to grab his arm and yank him forwards.

"Come on! You don't want to upset them!"

"I'm already upset," Arthur began, speaking softly but glaring daggers at the boy. "Why did you call me that? You can't call me that!"

The boy seemed to be picking up on his panic, his shock. George looked worried for a moment but finally told him. "I- I found your wallet," he said, so quietly so as not to alarm the soldiers. "I noticed your card and it said that your name is Arthur Eames."

The traveler was forcing himself to walk beside the boy, gritting his teeth and trying very hard to stay focused. So the kid looked in his wallet, that's fine. That's fine. It meant that he probably had his pocketknife and his totem. The thought of his totem in someone else's hands made him shiver just slightly at the feeling of insecurity. He pushed it away; he pushed it away hard to deal with this matter.

"I'm not Mr. Eames," Arthur said carefully. "I'm not _the_ Mr. Eames." But how could he really explain how important the distinction was? Was he really going to launch into the story of his getting married? Was Arthur really going to explain how he had taken Eames's last name, all in an effort to make sure that his Eames would also still be his _Mr. Eames_ , preserving the only pet name he could really claim for the forger?

There was a moment when he recalled how pleased Eames had been with the decision. _You really are mine, aren't you?_ Arthur had answered honestly, _When haven't I?_

That wasn't something he wanted to share with George. That was a memory he liked to cling to, a memory that gave him hope. They had always had each other. They were such a sure thing- how could it be that time is what was holding them apart now?

Arthur clenched his fists and forced himself to keep moving. Before George could ask again, Arthur cut him off.

"I'm not talking about that right now. You can call me the traveler like everyone else does, for all I care."

Arthur didn't dare look over at the boy. He didn't want confirmation that he'd hurt his feelings.

The rest of the walk was done in silence, but there was no peace.

* * *

Fanatics.

The first thing that Arthur noticed when they reached the foreign settlement was the freakishly large number of fanatics.

He supposed that he should have expected it sooner or later, but well, there it was!

"The wrath of the Lamb," the martyrs cried. "Break the seven seals, let the Horsemen ride!"

The groups were large and coherent only when they engaged in mass chanting or screaming. It would be amazing if it weren't so terrifying.

The soldier's closed in on Arthur and George, shoving these people out of the way and preventing them from getting too close. Arthur made the mistake of making eye contact with a young woman- her wispy red hair was matted with filth, but he couldn't say that the rest were any better.

She bared her teeth at him and positively _howled_ , "He will come, he will come! The Dragon is on the rise!"

This proclamation was met with more screaming and more howling.

Arthur saw no more as he was shoved into what appeared to be a cave. When he looked around the dank and wet interior he experienced a sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach.

"Not another one," Arthur couldn't stop himself from saying.

Thankfully, no one actually cared.

The cave was small and held only one person. Seated on the equivalent of a throne made of stone was an older man dressed in tattered clothes. He wore a crown but appeared to bow under the weight of it. Arthur noticed lots of little things about this king- like, the gun in the man's hand, or the way his eyes had been bound with winding bandages, and that his throat had once been unsuccessfully slashed. The scar was thick and ugly, purple and red above the man's shirt collar.

The soldiers had taken off their helmets and saluted to their seated ruler. The soldier acting as the captain of the little squad looked upon the king with pride and a little worry.

"King Simius, I have brought the traveler to you."

The old man on the throne of rock began to try and look around at the sound of the soldier's voice.

"Where?" His voice was rough, as if that slash to the throat had done some damage to the vocal cords. If the bandages weren't an act, the old king was blind. The bloodstained bandages were certainly very convincing, though.

Arthur chanced a look at George and spotted the tears rolled down the boy's face. He reached out and grasped the boy's shoulder, trying to offer support.

"What's wrong?"

George bit his lip and quickly shook his head, unable to verbalize it. He pointed at the king and forced out a halting accusation.

"My dad," George groaned, "he's the reason my dad's gone! He's the one that's calling us to fight, he's the one killing off the survivors so the Dragon can steal them away in death!"

"Yes," the king agreed, looking down with sightless eyes at his lap where the gun lay. "Those flying stinging things have popped my eyes. I survived having my throat cut, boy. They say that I'm the chosen one in this war against a wrathful God. We have joined the Dragon and his soldiers…"

Then, the old mad king began to laugh. "The people out there are called fanatics, but this is the way. They have it exactly right! It's the only way for this to go. The Dragon will come, his will be done, and in the fires we'll be cleaned!"

As one, the soldiers put their helmets back on, shouldered their weapons, and chanted with the king. "Oh let him rise, let him rise!"

Arthur watched all of this. He longed to hold his totem. His conversation with his projection of Eames came back to him, hitting him like a punch to the stomach.

 _But darling, how do you know that you aren't dreaming all of that up?_

Arthur took a deep breath and asked George softly, "Do you have my die?"

The boy looked up quickly, brushing the futile tears off of his checks and digging one hand into his pocket. He clenched his fist hard and offered it to him.

"What does the number four mean?"

Arthur refused to answer. He reached for the die.

And then a shriek tore the sky apart.

He spared a moment to look back the way he came. Arthur saw something big landing near the opening of the cave; he _felt_ it land as the earth shook beneath his feet. And then the terror driven screaming began.

"Oh shit," he said to himself, unmindful of the young boy at his elbow who was still offering the red die.

The soldiers rushed out of the cave. Arthur had no idea what they were doing- were they greeting the monster, were they going to worship the monster? He could hear more chanting and singing from the fanatics and he had to swallow against the lump in his throat. Arthur spotted his sword lying on the cave floor, gripped it hard enough to make his knuckles turn white and then rushed back the way they had come, leaving the now cackling king behind.

George tried to follow him, but could barely keep up. When Arthur saw the outside and what remained of the settlement, he felt better that George didn't see this. When the boy caught up with him, Arthur forced him to stand behind him, as if that would guard him from the worst of it.

The worst of it was the burning bodies. There were small fires everywhere destroying the camp, destroying possessions, and making the area glow an unearthly red.

And there it was; Arthur looked up and up and found this Dragon that he had heard so much about in the short time he had been here. The Dragon that King Simius had joined forces with, the Dragon that was causing the dead to rise.

Arthur's eyes narrowed as he eyed the giant beast- it was larger than Carl, the pterodactyl. It was something out of Arthur's nightmares, wreathed in thick black smoke. And all he had to fight it with was a fucking _sword._

Except…

He looked down at the device attached to his forearm. He licked his lips and calculated; he thought back to his previous experiments. As he did this he watched surviving soldiers fight through their so obvious betrayal- the would-be captain of the squad that had secured Arthur was now fighting his way back to the cave, back to where he could try and protect the king.

Arthur watched more of the fanatics fall. He watched the Dragon unleash fiery death upon those that escaped the first attacks. He knew what he had to do. He knew _exactly_ what he had to do.

He pressed one hand against his chest and clenched his fist. "Baby," Arthur said softly. "I'm so sorry."

Arthur began to punch a series of codes into the device on his forearm. Codes to disable every fail safe mechanism, codes to force the fuel cells to reach full power, and codes that would ensure the occurrence of the one thing his prototypes had been famous for doing.

All of Arthur's prototypes, every single one, had a terrible flaw. It wasn't something he had been able to iron out completely. In fifteen years, he was only able to create measures that would prevent the time machine going into overdrive, becoming destabilized, and _exploding as the portal opened._

Eames loved to joke about the one time Arthur lost his eyebrows in one of the explosions.

Arthur worked quickly, keeping track in his head, holding back on the very last step. He wouldn't be able to do that unless he was close, unless the device was actually touching the Dragon. He stripped the machine off of his forearm and watched as it glowed.

He was about to step into the path of the Dragon when George tugged on his elbow.

"But," the boy was saying, suddenly desperate for Arthur to stay by his side. "You can't. You have to go back home!"

Arthur looked down at George and smiled. He ruffled the boy's hair and gently extracted himself from him.

"Just go home to your mother, George. Of the two of us, I'd rather it was you who got back safely to the person who's been left waiting."

Then, Arthur ran to the Dragon.

* * *

No one had ever told Arthur how to fight a Dragon. It wasn't like he stumbled across it in his research as a point man.

When the Dragon noticed him, all it probably saw was another human dressed as a soldier. It probably didn't care about the glowing thing in his hand.

Arthur hoped it cared when he took the sword and tried to drive it into the monster's side.

It wasn't easy. The scaly hide was thick, but not impervious to his blade and he definitely got a reaction.

The Dragon shrieked as it was stabbed and immediately lunged forwards, claws digging into the scorched earth; when the long sinuous neck gracefully darted down to Arthur's level, just to give him a taste of hell fire, all Arthur could see was the sharp teeth and the blood red eyes of the Dragon. He smelled its smoky breath and let go of the sword he had left in the Dragon's side.

The Dragon sent a blazing ball of fire at the point man. Arthur felt the heat as he rolled out of the way, barely getting out of its path in time to avoid becoming extra-crispy.

"Oh?" Arthur heard himself say. "Is that all you've got?" Arthur grinned at the beast, recalling what he'd say to Carl the pterodactyl.

"Repeat it with me! I'm not snack!" Arthur touched the time machine, hitting the final series of buttons, keying in the code. He was flipping the circuits on, calling the portal into existence!

"I am not a fucking entrée! If you try to eat me, I will give you heartburn!"

The Dragon was once again looking at Arthur from his level; the point man was close enough to touch the monster's snout. It opened its mouth and prepared for one final blast of fire.

"If you're so hungry, why don't you eat _this_ , you bastard!"

Arthur jammed the time machine into the beast's open mouth, pausing only long enough to be sure that this wasn't a failed attempt.

But, no. No, the phosphorescent blue glow was spreading from where the device was lodged between the Dragon's teeth, unbroken. The light was enveloping the Dragon, the device was thrumming, and the portal appeared before the crouching Dragon, much larger than it would have been for just Arthur. If the Dragon understood what the portal was, it wasn't apparent.

Like in all of Arthur's failed experiments, the detonation only took seconds. The portal crackled and then dissolved! The backlash of energy was sent flying back into the machine.

The device exploded!

Arthur, too close to the detonation to run to safety, covered his head and was thrown from the site by the force of the explosion. His last thoughts were of the new pain in his chest, the sharp burning that took away all other thoughts and worries. Arthur didn't even feel it when he crashed to the ground, far from the spot where most of the Dragon _used_ to be.

* * *

 _"_ _Do you think he's going to be okay?_ "

Arthur wasn't sure what was going on now. It was over. It had to be over. He was gone. He…he was seeing these lights.

" _What is he saying?_ "

" _Boy, the dying usually say all sorts of crazy stuff."_

Arthur thought he recognized George's voice, for a moment. Then he drifted a little.

The lights were there, but he wasn't sure what they were for. There were two…no, no, there were three of them. The lights came closer, filling his vision. They began to speak.

"The Traveler has saved their souls from the Destroyer of Worlds," said one voice.

"Then why does his heart still scream?" asked another voice.

"Rise and speak," said the third.

Arthur let his head loll to the side. He felt such great pain in his chest- each time he tried to touch that area of hurt, he felt something brush his hands away. His fingers came away wet.

 _"_ _You were right to send for me, but there's nothing that can be done. There's too much damage. Too much shrapnel from that machine is lodged in his chest."_

Arthur, he started to laugh. He started to laugh, and it didn't matter that he was hurting his chest, or that people somewhere were holding him down, trying to keep him still. He was laughing and crying; it was all hitting him, right then and there.

 _"_ _He's bleeding out!"_

 _"_ _Ma, please you've got to save him!"_

"I couldn't save him," he was saying now between sobs, feeling hands pressing down harder on his chest. He was wondering if this is what the voices meant about how his heart was screaming. "I know that he will die. But please, if I could only tell him goodbye…all I want is just one more day. That morning in May…"

There was silence for just a moment, a space between his labored heartbeats.

 _"_ _He'll be done soon. Better get this ugliness over with- quick and clean. Use the man's sword."_

 _"_ _Ma, you can't! He's- he's our hero!"_

 _"_ _Boy, we still have zombies popping up from the freshly dead- charred and crushed, they still writhe their way along the earth and attack! You want the traveler to end like that?"_

Arthur distantly heard crying. But his limbs were too heavy, his heart hurting too badly. The lights were gone- he didn't know what was going to happen now. He felt something get worked into his palm, something small. It was a _cube_ of some sort. Arthur was perplexed. He knew that it meant something… there was something special about it. Wasn't there?

Arthur laid still and silent, unconcerned about the argument going on somewhere (" _Please, please, don't!"_ and " _Kid, just go run off with your mommy. You don't need to see this."_ ).

He sighed and let his head fall back.

 _I've fought reptilian monsters._

He closed his eyes.

 _I've crossed a bloody sea. Just to meet you here._

He felt something. He felt something pressing against his throat; something metal, something cold and sharp.

 _Now I'm coming home, my dear._

* * *

Between one moment and another, Arthur suddenly awoke.

He found himself sitting in his old chair, his head pillowed on his folded arms. He had been sleeping while doing research, again. He rubbed at his cheek and found a smear of ink.

Arthur looked around but still couldn't believe it. He was in his office, his little lab. Working on the designs for his latest attempt at the time machine. He looked down at the paper he had been drooling on, the paper that pressed some ink against his cheek. The paper was filled with notes, calculations, and even a little drawing of what the device would look like.

He examined the sketch of his device; how even then, he would prefer something other than a capsule or a large machine that would be _piloted_ through time. The sketch was of a human arm, the device being worn around the forearm, attached with a set of buckles and straps. It appeared to be the easiest way to prevent it falling off. It would be harder to lose, sturdier even, than his first ideas of some kind of bracelet (too small, too easily snatched away) or the watch (better than the bracelet, but too much of a cliché). And, of course there had been a matter of what to _name_ the device.

Arthur saw his careful penmanship, the times he'd gone over it, again and again. He lovingly traced the letters with one finger, just like he used to when he was trapped in the cave and needed to touch the carving of Eames's name on the wall to keep his hope alive.

Looking at the paper, seeing how he had doodled his husband's name like a lovesick kid, he had made a note. It read:

 _Eames (why is it so hard to create a cool acronym for a time machine using just your name?)_

Arthur was home again. He was finally home again!

He forced himself out of his chair and looked around the room; there were his whiteboards filled with the neat lines of equations, how even at this point he had been raging against the constant c. There were books, piles of paper, and the plate Eames had left on the stack of books nearest Arthur as he worked late into the night. _A midnight snack for you, darling_ , was all he had said, leaving the plate and fondly kissing the top of Arthur's bowed head.

He had gone to bed. The plate was empty; Arthur had definitely wolfed down the two cookies Eames had thought to bring him before going to bed.

Arthur looked out the window and saw that the sun was barely rising. If he were outside, he'd feel the warmth, he'd see the light on the far side of the horizon.

From his vantage point, he could see the old willow tree. There was no grave beneath the tree. The yard had been recently mowed and was free from weeds.

Arthur moved out of the office, noticing that as he walked his knees weren't bothering him, that his back was fine. He was in the hallway when he spotted his reflection in the mirror that hung on the wall.

He had been completely restored to the proper day and the _proper age._ The last fifteen years of mourning had been stripped from him. His hair was dark, his face unlined, and his body that of a young man in his prime.

Arthur moved along, not to be distracted from his goal. He walked carefully through the silent house, barely breathing till he reached the door to his bedroom.

It was half open. Arthur nudged it all the way open with one foot, peeking inside, almost frightened that this would be the one thing denied to him.

He stood in the open doorway and watched Eames breathing. The forger was curled up in a ball, under his nest of blankets, safe and warm. Alive.

Arthur could barely stop himself now; he took his first hesitant step into the bedroom. And then another.

"Oh," Arthur whispered to himself, not wanting to wake Eames prematurely. "Oh, love. There you are."

* * *

The small red die fell from the traveler's hand as soon as the blade of the sword kissed his neck and severed his head cleanly from his body. The solider dropped the blade and quietly crossed himself before looking over to the boy and his mother.

George, unable to stop his crying tried to get out of his mother's arms and reach for the fallen die. He could keep it and remember the traveler. He'd always remember him with it! He managed to extract himself from his mother's painful grip and snatched it off of the dirty ground. He began to clean it with the tail of his shirt.

Then, he did as the traveler had done with it.

George squeezed the red die in his palm, feeling the weight of it, wanting to be as reassured by it as traveler would be.

 _It always rolls a four. That's important, it's really important_. _Traveler_ knew _it was important._

George tried not to look at the body as the remaining people; the soldiers, fanatics, and the survivors of his city, gathered around the fallen traveler. A blanket was found and draped across the thankfully still form.

Mr. Arthur Eames wouldn't rise again.


	5. baby, we're almost home

A.N: This is the final installment for "Part IV: Morning in May". Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception. I don't own Ludo's music either!

my broken bride, you never breathed again

 _5\. baby, we're almost home_

Arthur moved so carefully, so quietly, across the bedroom. He was unable to take his eyes off of Eames who so peacefully slept. There was a moment, a shivery, sad little moment when Arthur felt afraid. He recalled what his projection of Eames said and he had failed to find his totem when he searched the lab or his clothes. Eames was either real or not. This was something he would have to accept.

This was his reward for saving that future from the Dragon- what more could he asked for?

Without another thought, without another reservation, Arthur climbed into bed fully clothed in the old t-shirt and sweats he pulled on to do that late night research. As he thought of it, there was a strange effect, something that he'd liken to an echo that only he could hear. He remembered pulling on these clothes, remembered pulling that all-nighter, and remembered crawling into bed with Eames so early in the morning.

Arthur didn't want to disturb Eames; he wasn't going to wake the man to steal some of the covers. Instead, Arthur pressed himself against the other man's back, like a shell. He wished he was something so tough. He slipped his arm around Eames and pulled him in tight.

The point man, the time traveler now returned home, wanted to surround himself with the solid reminders of Eames's living presence. Now, he would familiarize himself with Eames's body- he'd need to embrace and be embraced, kiss and be kissed. And then there was sex, of course.

Arthur was hoping to spend his restored lifetime relearning every little thing that made Eames feel loved.

Arthur sighed in pleasure at just the thought. He'd shelve the time machine project; he'd devote more time to his husband and shower him with attention. It wasn't that he wasn't demonstrative in his affections, but such a long time without him had left Arthur in a state of miserable withdrawal.

His fingers ached to touch the forger. He tried to close his eyes and think of something else; like, that even the sight of Eames's socks tossed on the wooden floor gave him a warm feeling of contentment.

 _I'm home_ , Arthur thought, holding Eames tighter and smelling his hair. _This is just what I'd hoped for. I want_ _socks on the floor, I want the pictures of us together everywhere in this room!_

Arthur wouldn't have to listen to his friends saying how sorry they were, he wouldn't feel sad when he happened to look at Eames's half of the closet and catch a hint of his cologne. They could pick up their life where they left off.

Just as Arthur was considering the pros and cons of initiating an early morning reach around, he heard a voice.

"Back so soon?" Eames asked, his voice softened by sleep, but even Arthur could tell that Eames was smiling as he spoke.

Arthur had to stop himself from saying what he wanted. _I tore time apart for you, Eames._

He smiled and said instead, "I never left."

Eames snorted and rolled over so he was facing him. Arthur drank in the sight of Eames and found that he was still thirsty. He needed to lean in and press his mouth against Eames's, it had been so, so long!

Arthur would never, ever get enough of this man. Whether it was a lonely fifteen years or spread across several centuries, from the beginning of time to the End of Days.

The kiss broke, leaving both out of breath. Eames began to laugh when Arthur tried to steal a second and then a third kiss.

"You're definitely wound up today, darling!"

Arthur stopped only long enough to growl, "Dear god, call me that again!"

Eames smirked and shook his head. "Only if you call me by one of yours."

They were cuddled close together, Eames having thrown more of the blankets over Arthur.

"I always call you Mr. Eames."

Eames shook his head once more. "Yes, but _you_ are also Mr. Eames. Give me a pet name; call me by an endearment that's just for me. I want to be special."

"You're already special," Arthur said, distracted by Eames's mouth. He was going to move in for another kiss and change Eames's mind.

He wasn't ready for Eames's hand suddenly appearing between their faces; he was even more perplexed when the forger took that hand and slapped it over his own mouth, raising an expectant eyebrow.

The gauntlet and been thrown. Arthur, feeling embarrassed and silly, was forced to offer at least one of the names he only used when Eames wasn't awake to hear him.

"Baby," Arthur began, looking for signs of stifled laughter on his husband's face. "I wish you'd let me kiss you some more."

Eames removed his hand. "I'd also accept honey, sweetheart, or sunshine, darling."

Arthur was stunned.

"You…you aren't always sleeping when I practice, are you?"

Eames shook his head and tugged Arthur in closer. "Sometimes. I wish that you tried sooner instead of waiting for me to be asleep."

Arthur didn't want to say that there was a time when he said all of those names when Eames wasn't sleeping, it's just that he hadn't been awake either. It was after Eames had the accident, when Arthur secured the cremated remains and buried Eames in the garden underneath the willow tree.

Digging the hole, he had chanted the names like a mantra and he placed the urn deep into the ground.

The memory made him shiver.

"Cold, love?" Eames pulled the blanket around Arthur, making sure he was covered completely. Arthur tried to forget it. Eames was alive. Eames was fine.

Arthur thought about fun ways to spend their morning together. He would make Eames breakfast. They would lie in bed all day and talk. Or, they would lie in bed and _not_ talk. Arthur was game for both!

But after a few minutes of companionable silence, Eames sat up a little bit and looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table.

"Damn, is it that time already?" Eames muttered under his breath.

Arthur froze. "What? Is something wrong?"

Eames gave Arthur a smile and got out of bed. When Arthur tried to follow him, Eames patted the blankets down, urged Arthur to relax.

"No, no! You've only just gotten in bed, darling! I want you to be well rested and full of energy." Eames winked at him before pulling his shirt over his head and moving to his side of the closet to snatch a fresh shirt off of a hanger. "You're going to need frequent breaks in between all of these experiments!"

Arthur couldn't breathe. He just couldn't. He watched Eames move about the room, preparing to leave. The forger changed his clothes, freshened up, and was grabbing his keys from the top of the dresser when Arthur found the strength to get up and follow the forger.

 _It- it was just a mistake_ , Arthur thought to himself, _he's just playing a joke on me!_

But, even as Arthur added up all the pieces, he trailed after Eames who finally turned to see that Arthur hadn't stayed put.

Everything was happening just like before…

Eames smiled at Arthur, gave him a hug and a quick kiss. Arthur followed Eames out onto the porch and watched the forger wave at him when he reached the car in their driveway.

Arthur pressed his hand against his chest- the tearing feeling, the pain, it almost took his breath away. He hadn't fixed anything! What was he going to do now? What could he possibly do?

Suddenly, he recalled something his Eames projection had said.

 _I didn't say that you were out of the dream just yet. Maybe you slipped another level down. Maybe you're waiting for the kick to bring you back to me._

The point man spotted his shoes by the door and without giving it another thought, shoved them onto his bare feet so he could run out across the lawn to where Eames was already starting the car!

The kick. If he died on this level, if it truly was a level of a dream or damned limbo, he'd use the kick to come back to Eames. If they did it at the same time, they'd get their together.

If he was right, if he was _right_ , there was one thing he could do.

Out of breath, Arthur quickly knocked on Eames's window, thankful that Eames hadn't pulled out of the driveway yet. The forger was surprised to see him but waited patiently while Arthur moved around to the other side, opened the passenger door and climbed into the front seat.

"Baby, I thought I'd come along for the ride."

Eames gave him a funny look but shrugged. "Hop in, darling. Maybe after I've finished my meeting we can go and do something fun!"

Arthur forced a smile and nodded, buckling up. He watched to make sure that Eames was belted in, as well, but had to remind himself that it wasn't the lack of a seatbelt that caused Eames's injuries and took his life.

No, it was the slick road, the damned tree, and his impact with the steering column.

Arthur watched Eames as the man drove. He was trying to see if he could find any trick, any flaw, anything to tell him that this was just a projection that looked like Eames, that this was really a dream.

Eames caught on to Arthur's staring and shot him a look of his own. "Feeling alright, darling? I _told_ you that staying in bed would be better for you."

"I'll still be having difficulties with the calculations and designs, even if I slept in."

 _Because I did that last time, look where it got me, damn it!_

Eames tutted and shook his head. "You'll do exactly what has to be done, love. You'll do it with terrifying competence. You'll fix everything."

Arthur bit his tongue as Eames delivered a line so similar to what his projection had said before. It was immediately unsettling. Arthur clenched his fist and wished really hard for his totem. It didn't appear.

He had seen Eames put his own totem in his pocket. He'd seen him do it just after he had taken a moment to readjust his wedding band. Thinking of it made Arthur reflexively look down at his own hand, searching for the tasteful platinum band that matched Eames's.

Before, when he had made his first attempt to save Eames's life, he had pointedly taken off the ring and left it on the kitchen table. He hadn't wanted to lose it. He hadn't wanted to damage it. The days he spent hiding in the cave were terrible- he had run his fingers over the empty spot where his ring was meant to be on his left hand, feeling _wrong_. That was another reason why he had carved Eames's name into the cave wall.

But now, today, he was wearing his. It wasn't exactly a totem, but it soothed his fear just a little. Besides, asking Eames to check his totem while driving was reckless.

They were nearing the site of the accident. The sun was rising in full, the light glinting off of the ice.

"What's that?" Eames asked, probably catching sight of the glare. He continued driving and Arthur reached for his right hand, grasping it tightly in his own.

Eames looked over at Arthur briefly before looking at the road again.

"Darling, what's wrong?"

Arthur was waiting for a sign. He was waiting to hear the music for the kick- maybe something loud and instrumental, like an orchestra with drums and crashing cymbals!

They struck the ice and swerved. Arthur grabbed onto Eames, holding him as they lost control.

"It's okay," Arthur was saying to a rattled Eames. "Hold on baby, we're almost home."

 _They'd always be okay if they were together_ , Arthur thought to himself, bracing for the final impact with that tree and waiting to see if the kick would take them back topside.


End file.
